


Scar

by Redcrow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, RP, role play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-24 05:24:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1593143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redcrow/pseuds/Redcrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s one of those moments, when everything is so fiercely intense, when time itself seems to slow down and every tiny detail stands out in sharp, biting contrast. The light bright and harsh on his skin, the curls softened and darkened by shadow, the way he was gazing at, scrutinising John’s scar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a role play written by stillbetterthanthesolarsystem (John) and me (Sherlock), starting with a ficlet I wrote some time ago (and can be found in my works). This rp took place on tumblr and is still going on so this will be updated periodically.
> 
> Each time we swap writers there will be a  
> _____
> 
> between them.
> 
> The rating will possibly change as time goes on.
> 
> Much thanks to stillbetterthanthesolarsystem for being an amazing John and letting me publish this here.  
> Not betaed/proofread whatever we call it these days. So please forgive any mistakes and/or point them out, thanks.

It’s one of those moments, when everything is so fiercely intense, when time itself seems to slow down and every tiny detail stands out in sharp, biting contrast. The light bright and harsh on his skin, the curls softened and darkened by shadow, the way he was gazing at, scrutinising John’s scar.

That feeling, that twist and rend deep inside him happened again and John had staggered slightly, he tried to cover it with an irritated sigh. “Sherlock… what are you doing?” The annoyance in his voice almost convincing.

“I’ve never seen your scar before. You keep it covered.” Sherlock almost whispered the words as he leaned forward and down, his breath raising goosebumps over John’s exposed skin.

John debated pushing past Sherlock, to get to his room and put on something more than a towel. But he just couldn’t move, something about those eyes froze him to the spot. With agonising slowness Sherlock raised his right hand, his long pale fingers reaching out. As his fingertips made contact with the surface of the scar, his eyes closed and he let out a breath as if he had been holding it.

“This…” Sherlock sighed “..this is what brought you back to London, this is what brought you to me.” His fingers reverently traced the outline of the bullet wound and then they were gone. Sherlock turned on his heel “Hurry up John…CASE” he called back over his shoulder.

John blinked and swallowed, and made his way unsteadily upstairs to get dressed. He would never feel the same way about his scar again.

Sherlock waited, somewhat patiently on the doorstep.  
_____

Still with the sensation of Sherlock’s touch in mind, John grabbed the nearest shirt and pulled it over his head. Sherlock had expressed interest in his scar before, but John never thought he actually meant it. He had always assumed it was some sort of morbid fascination, with the thrill of danger and wounds that were caused by it.

But hearing him utter words like that, words that John would have described as affectionate, happy and worshipping – that proved his theory wrong.

 

Sherlock wasn’t exactly a touch person, and yet he had touched John’s scar, and the good doctor just couldn’t wrap his head around it. Well, if he thought about it, Sherlock had been acting differently around him anyway, giving John more access to his inner self than anyone else. But still. Seeing him like that – John didn’t know how to take this.

John threw on a pair of trousers, telling himself to focus. They had a case, and he didn’t want to keep Sherlock waiting. Besides, that would be a nice distraction from all the thoughts that were occupying his mind right now, everyone revolving around Sherlock and the way he touched the scar, and the way his words were still echoing in John’s head.

He rushed downstairs where Sherlock was waiting for him, and forced out a smile that was supposed to look intrigued but came out as rather awkward and uncomfortable. ‘Right. Case. Let’s go. Brief me in the cab,’ John said and pushed past his flatmate, careful not to accidentally brush him in the process.

He heard Sherlock’s steps behind him and tried to stop thinking about the incident, focus on the facts that Sherlock would hopefully give him. It was all so very confusing for John – and the most confusing thing of all was that he found himself actually enjoying Sherlock’s touch.  
_____

In the back of the cab, Sherlock had open a file and started rifling through it. He tutted and shook his head.

"Pretty obvious John, barely a three but as we are already on the way, may as well have a look." He looked up with a proper smile.

He passed the file to John.

"Ex lover, ex police officer, used his own baton to bludgeon her to death." 

Sherlock tilted his head, studying John for a moment. He looked paler than usual and a little unbalanced.

"You alright?"  
_____

John thankfully grabbed the file, holding on to it as if his life depended on it. He frowned, reading the facts in earnest.

When Sherlock asked him a question, he didn’t answer right away. His brain somehow registered moments later that he had been asked something, so he looked up with a start and blinked once. ‘Uh. Yeah. Sure. I’m fine. As fine as I’ll ever be.’ He chuckled nervously. He knew that Sherlock noticed everything, of course he did, but John had tried his best to hide his confusion. Why did that bloody git of a detective see everything, dammit?

'What makes you think I'm not?' As soon as the question left his mouth, John could've kicked himself in the backside for it. A long deduction about his state of mind from the subject that he was thinking about really wast something he wanted right now. So he tried to change the topic. 'I'm rather concerned about you, actually. Merely a three, you basically have solved the thing already, and we're still going to have a look. Something wrong with you? Caught a bug?' John tried to joke, placing his hand against Sherlock's brow as if he was measuring fever, quickly tearing his hand away when he didn't get a response from his friend – except maybe a slight eyebrow raise.  
_____

The shiver came despite Sherlock’s best efforts to repress it. The moment the backs of John’s fingers pressed to his forehead the tremor ran through him. He pondered for a moment what that meant, raising an eyebrow. No way John would have missed that.

"True." He conceded. "But neither of us were exactly busy."

Sherlock frowned, he couldn’t be sure if what he was deducing about John’s strange behaviour was accurate or based on his own, equally strange desires. Was it wishful thinking? He looked shifty for a moment, then opened his mouth. Eventually he spoke.

"Er John…" He fidgeted uncomfortably "…earlier, what I …was that, was I inappropriate?"  
_____

John cleared his throat in an uncomfortable manner, twining his fingers and looking at the car floor. This was just so awkward, despite him and Sherlock being best friends and usually being able to talk about everything and anything. Also, John never had any problems to speak his mind, not at all, but this - this was different.

'Well, better looking at a dull case than you shooting the walls, I s'pose, heh.' He gave a little chuckle and licked his lips, still staring downwards. He desperately wanted to take the tension out of the situation but he didn't succed.

While he was still thinking frantically about how he could put the matter aside, Sherlock apparently decided to delve deeper into it, and John was doomed. His eyebrows shot upward at the question and he pursed his lips, not quite knowing what to say. No, please touch me again? Out of the question. I’d show you my scars anytime, Sherlock. There’s one on my bum as well, back from when I was a boy. Want to see that, too? No. Definitely not. John wasn’t gay and also very heterosexual, ta very much.

So he just shrugged.

'N-no, not necessarily inappropriate,’ John replied. ‘Just - unexpected, maybe? I’d never thought you’d be that interested in my scar. Y’know. Didn’t think you’d want to touch me - uh, it, I mean. It just - put me off.’ He sniffed once, trying to think of something more to say. ‘I mean, I’m used to you doing things that others would deem wrong or inappropriate, so I can’t really judge. It was weird. But not weird weird, if you know what I mean. And I’m just babbling now so I’d better shut up.’

John groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. What the heck had gotten into him, Jesus bloody Christ? Since when did he act like a love-struck teenager around his flatmate? He hoped Sherlock would drop the matter, but knowing him he probably wouldn’t.

'I'm not angry or anything, if that's what you're thinking,' he added quietly.  
_____

Sherlock waited patiently for the waffling to finally cease. Of course he gleaned way more information from what John wasn’t saying than what he was. He frowned, mostly to himself.

All the signals were there, Sherlock was sure of it but the words John spoke did not match with those signals. Sherlock was confused and worse than that, he was desperately wanting to see John’s skin again, scar or no scar. He filed that little nugget away for later contemplation.

His attention was soon diverted when the cab pulled up at their destination. Lestrade was waving them over.  
_____

John let out a sigh of relief when they finally arrived at their destination. He was the first to scramble out of the cab, clumsily because he was being hectic, and he busied himself with paying the cabbie while Sherlock was already walking up to Greg.

He joined them a little later, and Lestrade was already explaining the whole case once again. John did notice Sherlock’s little eye roll, the man surely was bored to death once again.

'… and so he hit her over the head, simple as that. Coroner assumes it were two or three hits in total, and he hit her straight over her parietal and her temporal, and bang she was done for,’ Lestrade said just when John arrived. ‘Hey, mate, good to see you.’ John nearly kissed the ground when Greg patted him on the back with unexpected force. ‘Glad that you both made it.’ He wore a happy smile on his face, looking back and forth between Sherlock and John.

'Yeah. So.' John rubbed his hands together, desperate to do something. He was standing too close to Sherlock for his liking now, he felt the warmth of the other man radiating through his coat, and it wasn’t like he didn’t want it, no, but it was too much. At least for now. He needed to work, distract himself. ‘Can we see the body?’

'Oh. Sure. Yeah. This way.' Lestrade took a step back and pointed at the yellow crime scene tape a few feet away. 'She's upstairs in the bedroom. Go ahead, see what you can find.'

John looked at Sherlock, tilting his head and nodding towards the door, urging him to go first. ‘Work your magic, genius,’ he said, and couldn’t help himself but stare at Sherlock when he strode onwards, how his back muscles moved under his coat, the way the fabric his trousers elegantly clung to his legs and of course there was Sherlock’s - no. No. John squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and denied himself to look there. He keep staring at the ground until they finally arrived upstairs. Sherlock got to work immediately.

_____

Sherlock leaped up the stairs two at a time and swept into the room with a swirl of his coat, holding the door open for John. He half smiled down at him as he stepped through.

The woman was still sat in her chair in front of an open laptop on her dresser. Sherlock moved around the body, not touching yet, just looking. He shot John a look and sucked in a breath when he found John staring intently at him. Sherlock pulled on one latex glove and opened one of the body’s eyelids, then the next. He looked up again and grinned.

"Just as Lestarde said, nothing more to see here. Shall we?" Sherlock motioned to the door and pulled off the glove.

Sherlock marched up to Lestarde.

"Just as you said she was hit three times." Sherlock turned as if to leave and shot John another blinding smile.

"Of course she was dead before the blows." He turned back, grinning at Lestrade’s expression.

"She died of a stroke about an hour before the attack, sat in her chair. Sorry detective, the best you can hope for is intent not murder."  
_____

'Cheers,' John muttered when walking through the door, his heart picking up on speed when he saw that half-smile on Sherlock's face. He quickly looked away. Jesus. Something was definitely wrong with him. Maybe it was him who had caught a bug.

It felt as if John had barely entered when Sherlock was already done. ‘Wh-?’ He still wasn’t used to this, Sherlock grasping all the facts in a matter of seconds, finding the cause of death or the killer or whatever by simply a few looks at the body and the crime scene.

'A … stroke,' he repeated, walking up to have a look at her himself while Greg tried to persuade Sherlock that it had been murder but didn't succeed. The pupils were a different size, one side of the face was more relaxed than the other, that was most definitely a stroke. 'Brilliant,' John said, not realising that he said this out loud, and when he looked up he locked eyes with Sherlock.

John swallowed. This man’s gaze could be so intense, so observing. And yet he wondered what it would feel like to be under Sherlock’s gaze for once. Not as a body, mind, but as a subject of interest. Just like - when he had examined the scar this morning. Or tried to, anyway.

And there the memories were again, and John was certain he felt himself blushing. ‘If there’s nothing left to do, we should go,’ he said and walked a few feet towards the door, waiting for Sherlock to follow.

_____

"Text me if you have any more questions." Sherlock was speaking to Lestrade but his eyes never left John as he followed him outside.

Leaving the crime scene behind them, Sherlock did not immediately hail a cab as he usually did but slipped down a side street instead, pulling John with him.

He had decided he needed more data so of course an experiment was his next course of action. He grabbed John’s hand, which induced an expletive and ducked into an alleyway. With a hand on each of John’s shoulders, Sherlock studied him, lightning quick.

John had a slight blush colouring his cheeks, it wasn’t particularly cold or hot and Sherlock had not just said something embarrassingly rude to anyone. His breathing was a little fast but they had not been running. Sherlock stepped closer and yes, there it was, a hitch in breath, a little more colour.

As Sherlock stood there deducing John, he noted something else, something about himself. His own temperature was a little elevated, his own breathing a mite too fast. His eyes fixed on John’s mouth, the corner of it in fact and he wondered why he found those particular lines and curves stored away already in his mind palace. The file marked ‘John’ was much more extensive than he had previously realised. He tilted his head and moved even closer, almost touching. John looked up and his eyes were dark, pupils wide. And that lovely mouth, that corner, twitched up.

"Oh"  
_____


	2. Chapter 2

John had mentally prepared himself for sharing a cab ride home with Sherlock, and then maybe spending the day with watching telly if no other case would show up. But then again, this was Sherlock, and he should have expected the sudden turn of actions.

So all he did way roll his eyes when Sherlock tugged him around a corner. John didn’t even realise that he had grabbed his hand until he was pushed against a wall, finding himself pressed against Sherlock. The detective’s eyes roamed over his face and John gulped.

Suddenly, the world around John disappeared. Everything he took in was Sherlock, their closeness, the intense gaze. He could only focus on the quick movement of those beautiful eyes that John had so often admired already, the warmth of Sherlock’s hands where they touched his shoulders, and he felt his own face turn red.

'Sherlo-' he managed to get out before Sherlock's eyes found his mouth and John's body reacted in a way he wouldn't have expected. Heart pounding, knees wobbly, breath leaving his lungs all of a sudden, John let out a sigh - or rather, a moan, and had to grab Sherlock's upper arm for steadiness. 'Jesus,' he whispered, eyes flicking between Sherlock's eyes and his mouth. What are we doing here, he asked himself but didn’t find himself objecting to the situation they were in. It wasn’t one he’d have pictured himself in, but he was with Sherlock - and it was all fine. Not the most romantic place, maybe, but well. Better than a candle on the table. He couldn’t help but smile.

The moment Sherlock uttered ‘Oh’, John’s smile faded and his mouth dropped open just a bit, as if he were saying ‘oh’, too. He reached up to gently touch Sherlock’s lips with his index finger, marvelling at how soft they were, staring at the way they curved.

John didn’t know what to do - continue, stop, or just let Sherlock do whatever he wanted to? Maybe that was another one of his experiments. So he dropped his hand again and said quietly, ‘Had a revelation, genius?’  
_____

"Yes I think I have and I think ..maybe you have too."

Sherlock stepped back, releasing John’s shoulders but holding his eyes a little longer. Then turned with a swish of his coat and was marching back off up the road.

"Fancy take away tonight? My treat." He called back over his shoulder.

This was all very interesting and apparently all because of his compulsion to examine John’s scar, maybe he should ask to see it again. He had meant what he’d said then and it was strange, not his usual choice of words, it was emotional attachment. This realisation frightened him a little.

"Actually how about we go and get a drink …pint, at your pub? That would be er nice, wouldn’t it?"  
_____

When John was released from Sherlock’s look, he slumped back against the wall, closing his eyes and taking some deep breaths to calm himself down. He wasn’t made for attacks like that - not that he hadn’t enjoy it, quite the contrary. But it had taken him by surprise, especially since Sherlock was the one who initiated it.

But had he had a revelation?

John wasn’t too sure about that. He had realised something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He did know, however, that he didn’t mind Sherlock invading his personal space - quite the opposite, actually. He assumed that it was so weird to him because he didn’t know Sherlock like that: so caring, so interested in another human being that wasn’t the great detective himself or a corpse. He had appreciated the words he had said this morning, but they seemed to strange. John always assumed Sherlock simply allowed him to tag along because he proved himself useful at times, and not because he actually wanted to have him close. And John’s scar was something terribly personal, something he didn’t like carrying around. He came to the conclusion that he wouldn’t mind to show it to Sherlock again - but he needed to know that it wasn’t purely because of clinical interest in anatomy and exit wounds.

And with Sherlock, you just couldn’t be certain about those things.

Maybe, John told himself, I will have a more in-depth revelation this evening, which brought him back to Sherlock’s initial suggestion.

There was nothing wrong with going out for a pint, was there? Two blokes having a friendly chat over a drink? Two friends casually sitting in a pub, talking about everything and anything? No, no danger there. And Sherlock would certainly not ask John to take off his shirt to show him his scar in public, even if he usually didn’t care about that sort of thing.

So John nodded. ‘Sure. Sounds good. We could go grab a beer and then get some take away on our way home? Maybe put a film in or something?’

Yes, absolutely no harm in that, John concluded. Drinking a pint, having dinner together, watching something while comfortably sitting next to each other on the sofa - oh Jesus. What had he done? John mentally made a note to wear a shirt beneath his jumper. And a jacket, too. Just in case.

'So, how's that sound?' John asked, voice a bit croaky. On the one hand, he desperately wanted Sherlock to agree, on the other hand he felt anxious because he didn't know what the evening would bring.  
_____

"Sounds great. Isn’t your usual The Barley Mow on Dorset Street?" Sherlock knew of course that it was. It was the nearest pub to 221B, just off Baker Street and Sherlock knew it was the pub John went to when Sherlock’s experiments became too much, or when he fancied a chat with George er Greg.

"Let’s walk there, it’s only 10 minutes or so and the weather is…" He squinted up at the sky, clouds were gathering with the approaching darkness. "Not terrible ..yet. You know thinking time.." He twirled his fingers around his head and smiled.

They walked in relative silence and it was strangely comfortable. He did indeed use the time to think and the thought that wouldn’t go away was that John was attracted to him. Emotionally attached, definitely, Sherlock knew this to be true for himself also, and now it seemed physically drawn to as well.

They got to the pub just as the first fat rain drops splashed on the pavement, ducking into the doorway gratefully. They were soon seated at a small table with a a pint of something amber and unpleasantly foamy, each. Sherlock picked his up regarded it for a moment and then downed the lot in one go. He put the empty glass down on the table and beamed at John.  
_____

On the way to the pub, John kept his mouth shut, afraid of babbling on like an idiot or saying something that would ruin the whole evening for both of them. It was a comfortable silence between them, however. He enjoyed just walking next to Sherlock, bumping shoulders occasionally when the pavement was too narrow, or tourists decided to randomly stop in the middle of the bloody path. It made John feel happy, content, to be walking the streets of their beloved London without a case or danger for once, just roaming along, letting the traffic flow by, breathe in the air and just enjoy the day - even though the weather threatened to become worse - with his best friend.

John was proud to share a moment like that with the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, and it made him feel like he was important. He assumed that if Sherlock were to put a hand on the small of his back like he sometimes did, John wouldn’t mind.

*

While John was only taking small sips from his beer, Sherlock regarded his as if it was a body that needed to be examined. He watched Sherlock down his beer, raising an eyebrow. ‘Are you desperate to get home or were you just really thirsty?’ Sherlock kept beaming at him.

'And why the hell do you smile like that? I mean, it's not like I mind or anything, smiling suits you - it's just weird. You, grinning like a Cheshire Cat all the way from the crime scene to here.' John flourished his hands, pointing at the door and then to their table. 'It's impossible for the alcohol to have entered your blood this fast, and the case wasn’t particularly interesting, either. So, why are you smiling? What’s going on with you? Sure you don’t have a fever?’

He didn’t say that he was impressed with Sherlock emptying his pint in one go, but he figured he didn’t need to. It surely was obvious enough for Sherlock to see.  
_____

"Fever? No I don’t think so."

Sherlock grinned again before rising from his seat and making his way to the bar. He returned with two drinks each this time, a pint and shot. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was doing this but the alcohol left a pleasantly warm feeling in his stomach and Lestrade, Greg, had said something about John liking a few pints, ‘it opens him up’. Sherlock did feel that maybe he needed a little ‘opening up’ too.

He placed two drinks in front of John, dropped his full shot glass into his pint and downed that too, fully intending to get drunk.

*burp*

"Oh excuse me." He said after covering his mouth.

"Come on John." Sherlock said gesturing at the drinks. "You have some catching up to do."

He watched as John picked up his pint and took a sip, John was looking at him suspiciously so Sherlock gazed around the bar, rubbing the bitter foam from his lips.

"I was wondering if I could see your scar again? Not here…" He added quickly when John’s eyes went wide. "I mean at some point. If you’re comfortable with that?"  
_____

'Are you trying to get me drunk so you can see my scar again?' John asked, eyes wide in shock.

He was still clinging onto his first pint, looking at Sherlock with a frown on his face and pursed lips. There was something off here, very off. He watched Sherlock mixing his drinks, downing them, and looking happier than ever before. And he didn’t plan on catching up on the drinks, not like this anyway.

John’s eyes darted to the table, the fingers of his right hand fiddling with the drip mat. ‘Cause, you know, you’d just have to ask. Showing you my scar doesn’t necessarily have to involve alcohol.’ He looked up again. Christ, no. He had made the experience that if there was the taking off of clothing involved, he shouldn’t be drunk. Really not.

He sighed. ‘Here’s the deal - if you really want to see it so badly, you’ll let me finish my pint, and you’ll finish the other drinks you bought. Slowly. Then we’ll go home, you buy that take away you promised, and then you can have a look at it again, okay?’ John just wanted to get it over and done with, and if Sherlock really wanted to examine it then he wouldn’t shut up until he had the chance to. So it was best to just let him have what he wanted.

'There's just -,' John began, pinching the bridge of the nose with thumb and index finger before continuing, '- I'd just like an explanation. Just what is the reason that you want to see it again? You’ve seen it this morning, it’s a shot wound like every other wound, it just happens to be on my body. What’s so fascinating about it?’

Deep down, John hoped for an answer as affectionate and emotional as the first time, because if it turned out that Sherlock wasn’t purely interested in the medical aspect of this, well. That would change things. Probably.  
_____

"No, I’m trying to get me drunk so that I can see your scar again.” Sherlock stated matter of factly. “If my inhibitions are not reasonably lifted, I am likely to say something rude, hurtful, stupid and emphatically not true.”

Sherlock took a drink of the next pint more slowly than before and licked the foam from his lips. Well there it was, he hadn’t lied or embellished, he had just said exactly what was on his mind. The alcohol was already working it seemed.

He frowned at John’s expression, it wasn’t one he had seen before and it was going to take more data than he had right now to properly define it.

"Thai?" He asked brightly.  
_____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Barley Mow is the closest pub to Baker street.


	3. Chapter 3

John couldn’t help but stare at Sherlock’s mouth, pink tongue peeking out to remove the foam, and he was being snatched from his thoughts and his staring when his friend asked him if Thai was alright.

'Uh, yeah, sure,' John answered, voice a bit unsteady. 'But your treat, remember?' he added with a slight smirk.

They finished their drinks in silence, Sherlock happily gulping away John’s extra pint as well, and then they made their way to their favourite Thai restaurant. John ordered their dinner for take away, simply because Sherlock wasn’t able to. Maybe the alcohol had gone to his head already. Whatever the reason, Sherlock spent ten minutes trying to read the menu although he usually only ever took one certain meal, so John rolled his eyes, ordered and then they left.

When they arrived at the flat, they sat down to have dinner, telly murmuring in the background. John had to force himself not to look at Sherlock eating, but it did prove to be difficult. He still didn’t quite understand what had changed over the day, but he perceived Sherlock in a different way than before. Why, or how he didn’t know, but he was determined to find out.

After a few minutes, Sherlock was already only picking at his food. If that was because he wasn’t hungry anymore, or because he was bored, John wasn’t able to tell.

'So,' he began casually, 'now that you are quite squiffy, do you want to examine the scar of interest after dinner?'  
_____

Balancing a plate on one’s knees, while sitting on a low sofa and with legs as long as Sherlock’s was not an easy task, Sherlock soon got fed up of it and stopped eating.

"Yes, if that’s agreeable." Sherlock slid his plate across the coffee table, glad to be rid of the half eaten meal. He did not bother to pretend he wasn’t watching closely as John removed his jumper, pulling it up over his head in one fluid motion. There was that rise of colour again, he wondered briefly if that was reflected in himself.

"Oh hang on.." Sherlock’s words were still a little squiffy "You er you’ve got some green curry on your chin."

He leaned towards John extending the fingers of one hand to John’s face. He stopped for a fraction of a second, expecting John to move away or ask him what the hell he was doing. But John did not move, or frown. Sherlock touched the pad of his thumb to the slight stubble of John’s chin and wiped the sauce off, brushing the edge of John’s bottom lip.

His eyes never left John’s face as he sucked the sauce from his thumb.  
_____

John was too shell-shocked to do anything but sit there and watch when Sherlock suddenly reached out, wiping away the green curry on his chin. He was embarrassed enough as it was, sitting there half-naked in front of his flatmate, full well knowing that certain flatmate had watched him strip off his jumper.

Jesus.

And now here he was, licking his thumb lasciviously and didn’t break eye contact, and if John hadn’t been forcing himself to count to twenty, he would have probably fainted. Or something like that.

Who knew Sherlock could be such a sensual, seductive human being? John knew that he flirted to get what he wanted, that was part of his nature. But why would Sherlock feel the need to do this with him now? Ergo, why did he act like that? Was there a deeper meaning behind all of this? Was it the alcohol that made him do what he did, or was that his honest, passionate self that wanted John?

And if it was the latter - what the heck was John supposed to do now?

'Er… thanks… I guess?' he managed to say, swallowing heavily, his eyes still locked with Sherlock's. He cleared his throat, deciding to ignore what had happened just now - maybe it was Sherlock being drunk, maybe it was a coincidence, maybe he saw too much in it. Better keep going, he told himself, pretend that nothing happened. He couldn’t hide the blush that crept up his cheeks, though.

'So, uh, how do you want me?' he asked, mentally kicking himself as he realised what that could imply. 'Er, I mean, for scar inspection. Should I turn around or will you position me? … To examine the scar. I mean.'

And there he was again, stammering like a bloody insecure teenager.  
_____

Sherlock tried not to smirk at that, he really did but he was pretty sure he had failed. 

"Do you mind standing? Then I can just move around you." He did not sound at all drunk now, in fact his head was feeling very clear. He stood and waited for John to do he same, stepping back. He circled John slowly, admiring the well toned muscles of his arms and back. His eyes roamed over the skin of John’s neck, the tendons shifting as John turned his head to follow Sherlock’s path. His body gleamed gold in the lamplight and Sherlock found himself wondering what the rest of John looked like without the barrier of clothes. He was a little surprised at himself.

The star shaped entry wound was neatly done, actually quite aesthetically pleasing, though it’s story of course was one of violence and pain. Sherlock shuddered, just barely, pushing aside his own memories of violence and pain. He stepped closer and leaned in, his nose inches from John’s shoulder. He looked up, a sweep of dark eyelashes.

"May I touch?"  
_____

John usually didn’t have a problem with nudity, or showing his nude body to another man. He wasn’t a prude, and he had been in the army for God’s sakes! But this - this was Sherlock Holmes. This was different.

In a way, it felt like Sherlock was a tiger, circling his prey, and said prey was John. Well, Sherlock did resemble a feline in some ways: majestic, beautiful, lithe, dangerous.

John could feel Sherlock’s nose hovering only inches above his shoulder, and the had to fight the urge to lean against his flatmate.

Sherlock had often touched him, on several occasions, but usually with at least a layer of clothes between them. John assumed he would use a more clinical touch for examining the scar, but he couldn’t be entirely sure. Not with the way Sherlock looked at him.

'Uh, sure, I guess,' he stammered. 'I don't feel any pain there anymore, but please be careful nevertheless. The tissue is still sensitive.'  
_____

"Of course…" Sherlock breathed out the words, the air ghosting across John’s exposed skin. 

Tentatively he reached out to the surface of the entry wound, much like he had done that morning. Sherlock touched lightly, reverently, he leaned in further, so close was he that John could feel him talking, mumbling, millimeters from his scarred flesh.

Sherlock was not aware that he talking out loud, the words were indistinct.

"scar tissue - not unlike - in many ways - also - mine -"

He moved again, standing upright he stepped around John, the pads of his fingers brushing lightly over John’s shoulder and he stopped, behind John on his left side. 

The exit wound was messy, not a neat star but a blurred shapeless thing. He let his fingers slide over the bumps and dips of the scar tissue. His breath catching.

"Beautiful." He murmured.   
_____

John stood completely still, hands clenched to first, forcing himself to breathe steadily and calmly.

In, out, in, out…

His skin was warm where Sherlock’s breath touched it, and his heart was beating fast, very fast. The gentle touch on his scar made John shiver with both pleasure and disgust - the latter directed at his wound. But Sherlock’s touch felt so wonderful, so soothing and caring.

In, out, in, out…

John almost missed the words Sherlock was mumbling, he was too distracted by his touch. But the second he did hear them, he directed his attention to both.

In, out, in, out…

He couldn’t help but turn his head, following Sherlock’s every movement. When Sherlock stood almost directly in front of him, their foreheads touched for a fraction of a second, and John’s breath hitched. He couldn’t breathe through his nose anymore, the rush of touching and gentle whispers and his closeness soon became too much for him to handle, and his mouth formed the shape of an ‘o’, gulping the air.

In, out, Sherlocksherlocksherlock…

'This… isn't beautiful,' John whispered back, wanting to reach out and drape his fingers over Sherlock's but resisting. 'I can't understand how you see anymore than wounded skin in it.'  
_____

"I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I don’t know how to express myself it is because I never expected to be anybody’s best friend. Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.”

Sherlock said this while stepping back around John, to be facing him again. He held up a hand when John opened his mouth to say something.

"I don’t know how to explain it you John, except to say that that the violence, pain and fear that you experienced because of this wound, is what brought you to this place and ..to me. My own experience of those things are what brought me back to you."

Sherlock’s eyes went wide and he stopped talking, his mouth a thin line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the best man's speech is used here.


	4. Chapter 4

John had to let the words sink in. This was Sherlock opening up, being fully vulnerable and honest, maybe for the very first time in his life. It was proof that John was someone special to him, and it meant a lot.

He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, not knowing what to say. ‘You,’ he began but had to stop, voice breaking. The last words that had been uttered reminded him of himself, standing at Sherlock’s grave and talking to his apparently dead friend. ‘You are… my best friend, Sherlock, and you always will be. I know you’ve heard me back then, when you were dead. You know what I think of you, how highly I think of you.’ He took a tiny step closer. ‘And if there’s anyone out there who deserves to be admired and loved and happy, then it’s you. And if I am the one who can give all that to you - then I’ll gladly do so.’

John’s eyes never left Sherlock’s as he lifted his left hand, placing it over Sherlock’s that was still resting on his scar.

'You know, I've… I've always kind of resented myself. After this happened, all those years ago. That I was stupid enough to get shot. That I have that scar, that I got such a pitiful PTSD out of it, everything. Sometimes I hated myself for not dying on the spot.' John cleared his throat. He hadn't even talked about that with Ella, his therapist. It wasn't easy for him. 'But looking back on it now - seeing as it brought me to you… I'm kind of glad it happened.'

His thumb started moving slowly, gently caressing the soft skin on Sherlock’s hand.

'And even if it hadn't, I'm sure I'd have found a way to you anyway. After all there is no such things as coincidences - the universe is rarely that lazy, huh?' He managed a smirk, eyes cast downwards, shuffling his feet.

'So here we are. Two idiots that have trouble expressing what they feel. What are we going to do, hm?' With a little lopsided smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, John looked up at Sherlock from beneath his eye lashes.

Something had changed, in only a few minutes. It was like this morning: time slowed down, not enough air in the room, too much space between them. What were they going to do?  
_____

"John Hamish Watson, never ceasing to amaze me."

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up. He wasn’t just reacting to John’s words, his touch, the simple touch on his hand was like fire.

"It’s always been you."

Sherlock leaned down and forward again, this time his lips made light contact with John’s scar, just a breathy touch. His left hand rose and slipped to the back of John’s neck, not holding him, just resting and then he straightened up and stepped back, his heart hammering and his lungs not drawing in enough air. He was suddenly and inexplicably frightened.

"Er sorry, sorry, that was …"

He shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back, trying to calm the storm of unfamiliar emotions raging through him.  
_____

John’s world came to a halt all of a sudden. It was as if the air rushed out of his lungs, as if someone pressed a red-hot iron to his scar - right where Sherlock’s lips were touching it. Time stood still.

John closed his eyes, marvelling at how wonderful it felt, Sherlock’s breath ghosting over his shoulder, soft, pliant lips pressing warmly against his scarred flesh. It felt right, it felt natural, and he didn’t want Sherlock to stop - even if it had taken him by surprise.

'There's… nothing you have to apologise for,' John said quietly, locking eyes Sherlock. 'If there was, I'd tell you. You know that.' In fact, John wanted him to continue, a thought that surprised him. While he definitely was not gay, he felt a certain attraction towards Sherlock; an attraction which had always been there from the very beginning. He just never wanted to admit it, but standing here at this very moment, the tneison between them almost touchable, he couldn't deny it anymore.

Sherlock had quickly become one of the most important people in his life, if not the most important one, so it was only natural that somewhen the nature of their relationship would change. John wasn’t sure if this was mutual, but judging by what had happened today, he could be fairly certain that Sherlock thought differently about him, too.

So John extended a hand, reaching out for his best friend. He wanted him to come closer again, wanted to show him that there was nothing wrong with being in his personal space, touching him. ‘Come here, Sherlock,’ he murmured, ‘I don’t want you standing there like if I’ve just pushed you away. You did nothing wrong.’

Maybe it was the way Sherlock was standing there, looking vulnerable and sad, defeated even, that made John remember the incident all those months ago: his girlfriend of that time shooting Sherlock out of selfish reasons. They broke up as soon as John found out, and even though the wound healed well on the outside, John knew that Sherlock hadn’t healed properly on the inside.

'Sherlock,' he began, 'I… I was wondering if I could see your bullet wound?' It was just a hunch he was following, really, but showing Sherlock that they were alike in more way than they thought might help him to process it, bring them even closer together. Maybe that was what they both needed: talking about the pains and the hurt of the past to get over it completely, and to start a new life. Together.

John kept his hand extended, looking at Sherlock. It was his decision now. John was happy to help and support and care for him in every way he could. If Sherlock wanted to back out, then now was his chance.  
_____

A shadow fell over his face and Sherlock paused. He had no issue with John seeing the bullet wound but the others… the ones John didn’t know about. The worst were on his back, maybe he could just unbutton his shirt, not take it off. But John had let him see, examine even all of his upper body, he couldn’t refuse now, if he was honest with himself, he couldn’t refuse John anything.

Sherlock slipped his jacket off and watching John the entire time, unbuttoned his shirt. He looked down as he raised one shoulder out of the fabric and couldn’t stop the flinch that exposing that flesh induced, even with it obscured from John’s gaze. His eyes flicked up to John worriedly.

Stopping now would raise just as many questions as continuing so he let the shirt fall and stood facing John, hoping he would not look at his back.  
_____

John couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight in front of him. If he was honest with himself, he had dreamt about a situation like this, with Sherlock, once or twice. Or maybe more. He had tried to forget it, written it off as being the consequence of not having had a good shag in quite some time, but Christ, this was something else.

'God, you're beautiful,’ he whispered, letting his eyes roam over Sherlock’s face, neck, torso. That man really was attractive, John had to admit that. The contrast of the silky purple fabric of Sherlock’s shirt and his ebony coloured curls against his somewhat marble skin, his soft pink lips, penetrating eyes of a colour John couldn’t describe… he was a marvel, and John couldn’t help but lick his lips.

It dawned upon him that those dreams had not only to do with his non-existent love life, but rather with the deep attraction and affection he felt for Sherlock, and he just couldn’t deny it anymore. That man did things to him, made his heart pound faster, made something in his chest clench and burn, made his lips dry and his whole body scream.

John wanted nothing more than to hold him close, but he resisted the urge to step forward. Sherlock looked quite anxious and he didn’t want to scare him off. He knew he needed his own time, and he was willing to give him that.

The shirt fell to the floor with one last, swift movement, and there they were, both naked from the waist up, staring at each other, so close and yet so far away. John’s eyes roamed over Sherlock’s chest and then flickered to the entry wound of the bullet that had brought the two of them together again. It was smaller than his, but it was pinker since it happened more recently.

He slowly stepped closer to Sherlock, extending a hand and laying it on his right shoulder, all the time not breaking eye contact. He waited for a signal from Sherlock that told him to stop, but there was none, so he assumed it was fine. He trusted Sherlock enough to know that he would tell him if there was something he didn’t want.

Gently, John let his hand travel downwards, sliding over Sherlock’s skin. He enjoyed the feeling, very much in fact, and he wondered what it would be like if he was allowed to touch Sherlock in a different setting, in a different way. Stupid thought, of course, he told himself, Sherlock would never let him that close. Surprisingly, he found himself disappointed by that.

When his fingers traced the outlines of the bullet wound, John stilled for a moment. He looked closely at Sherlock, trying to find anything that told him he was uncomfortable but except for a slight jaw clench there was nothing. Sherlock didn’t stop him.

Softly, John let his fingers slide lower, feeling the scar. It had healed well, he thought, but there still was that nasty hardness and the place where the stitches had been could still be felt. But that would fade too, in time.

John smiled. ‘We’re quite alike, you and I. As horrible as being shot was, at least it brought us together. In both cases.’ Then he allowed himself to look down for the first time, but it wasn’t the bullet wound he looked at because something else caught his attention.

There was a rather large scar on his hips that John didn’t know the origin of. Slightly alarmed, he looked up. ‘What is that?’ he asked, but didn’t get an answer. Sherlock looked away, muscles in his arms tensing. John let his gaze slide over Sherlock’s body quickly, analysing. He ran his hands over his torso, then his arms, then his back.

Sherlock carried several wounds and scars that John didn’t know of. They certainly hadn’t been there before his suicide, he had seen him shirtless often enough to know that for a fact. That meant he must have acquired them during his absence.

Sherlock’s words from before suddenly re-echoed in John’s head. ‘My own experience of those things are what brought me back to you.’ Those things. Violence, torture, pain. John didn’t know what his friend had had to endure during that time. They never properly talked about it, and Sherlock was defensive about it anyway. The only thing John knew was that it hadn’t been exactly easy for Sherlock, but if those scars were anything to go by, the past two years must have been horrible.

'Oh my God,' he breathed, panicking and alarmed. 'Oh my God, Sherlock.’ He grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders, steadying himself, several terrible images coming to his mind of what might have happened to him. It was too much.

Sherlock had never told him about this time, yet John knew that he had partly done this for him as well. To protect him. ‘Jesus…’ He couldn’t focus anymore, eyes darting to and fro, fingers clenching into Sherlock’s flesh.

'What happened? What are those?’ John asked breathlessly, looking up into Sherlock’s eyes. He desperately wanted to pull him into a hug but assumed that Sherlock didn’t want that. Not right now, anyway. He just hoped his friend would see that he didn’t think any less of him, that he still loved him, that he was there for him. John didn’t want Sherlock to run away.  
_____

The way John was looking at Sherlock, pinned him to the spot. He could do nothing but gaze back and try to remember how to breathe. As John stepped closer, Sherlock tensed just fractionally. This was it, this was when John would start asking questions. Sherlock had no idea how he was going to handle this, the thought of just running to his room was one option. It would only delay the inevitable but delay was good.

And then John touched him. It was just a hand on his shoulder but that was enough to stop time. Sherlock was rarely touched by anyone, he avoided it but this touch was from John and that made it a quite different thing.

Sherlock watched, captivated as John’s hand moved down his chest and stomach. John was saying something but his voice seemed muffled, far away. There was a shift in the atmosphere, Sherlock looked up and then followed John’s gaze to the ragged tear of a scar above his left hip, just the end of it visible above the waistband of his trousers. This scar was the newest one by a few days, the bullet that caused it had torn through the thin flesh over his hip bone at a thankfully sharp angle, causing no damage to the bone itself. It had not been long after this wound was inflicted that Sherlock returned to Baker Street.

Sherlock flinched, tensing up, John had asked him what it was but he couldn’t speak. Suddenly John’s hands were all over him, this did not help with regaining the power of speech. He swayed slightly on the balls of feet, feeling discontented, adrift and then John’s hands were at his shoulders again, steadying him, or was John steadying himself?

Sherlock finally looked back up to John’s eyes and he heard everything John said quite clearly. He still couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, he forced himself to take in a lungful of air and his head span. He wondered if John could see the the fear and pleading in his eyes.

He stepped forward, his hands rose, his arms encircled and his head bent low to rest on John’s shoulder. Sherlock just held on.  
_____


	5. Chapter 5

John’s heart was hammering against his rib cage, threatening to burst. His mind was only one huge thought of Sherlocksherlocksherlocksherlock. He desperately wanted to do something - take care of the wounds, comfort Sherlock, but at the same time he wanted to know the truth. He needed to know what happened.

It was obvious that Sherlock didn’t feel comfortable at all in this situation, and John completely understood. But shutting it out, not talking about it - that wouldn’t help either. That was what had happened to him. He didn’t talk about getting shot. Or about the mental torture the war had caused him. Not once. And then he was running around with a PTSD that only Sherlock was able to cure.

It’s fair to say that John was more than surprised when Sherlock suddenly stepped forward, embracing him, looking for contact and closeness. He was grateful that Sherlock hadn’t run off but had preferred to stay with John, and close to him at that.

'Thank you,' he said quietly, uncertain if Sherlock had heard that.

Without further ado, John’s hands came up to hug Sherlock back, pressing him against his body. Trying to avoid the wounds on Sherlock’s back, John pressed the palms of his hands against him, trying to press him even closer, burying his nose in the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

'I've got you,' he whispered, gently running his right hand over Sherlock's left scapula. 'You're safe with me.' It sounded horribly cliché, but John didn't know what else to say. That was too much, even for him, to see that Sherlock had suffered like that.

His Sherlock. The man who was so powerful and strong and brave and untouchable. The man he adored and admired. The man he loved had been hurt.

John felt himself getting angry at the thought of someone hurting his best friend, but he forced himself to suppress it. Sherlock was more important now, he needed to be there for him. But he couldn’t stop himself from weeping silently. He didn’t cry many tears for he wanted to be strong - Sherlock needed that right now. But the few that rolled down his cheek, leaving salty traces behind, he cried for Sherlock, and for the pain and fear he must have experienced. He couldn’t stand the thought of his best friend to be treated like that - Sherlock didn’t deserve to suffer.

John gently moved both of them so that they could sit on the sofa, pulling Sherlock a bit closer again. He reached up to run his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, trying to soothe him, trying to make whatever pain he was experiencing right now go away.

He didn’t know how long they sat there, unmoving, and frankly, he didn’t care. After a while, John pulled back, but only enough to frame Sherlock’s face with his hands, touching their foreheads together.

'Sherlock, you are a brilliant human being and I am so sorry for what happened to you. You don’t deserve any of this,’ John said quietly. ‘And I understand that this isn’t something you’d want to talk about. But if you do want to - then I’m here. I’ll always will be, and I’ll always listen.’

It was Sherlock’s choice now, and even though John wanted to know the origin of his wounds, he didn’t want to push it. The trust between them was strong, but the bond they had formed this evening through tentative touches and explorations was still fragile. He didn’t want to destroy it by asking too much of his friend.

'I just want you to know that you are my best friend, the best person I have ever met, and that I'm here for you. No matter what.' John pulled back again, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock's brow before putting his arms around him once again to pull him into a tight hug. 'No matter what.'  
_____

It burned that touch, those lips on his forehead. It burned and burned and didn’t subside. Sherlock stepped back, his arms releasing John. He raised one hand to his head, touching the searing skin with two fingers, rubbing the spot in confusion.

He picked up his shirt and shrugged into it, his movements unnatural, forced.

"I can’t John, I’m sorry…" He shook his head. "but I can’t..not yet."

Sherlock slumped into his chair and began to button up his shirt. He was completely sober now, he knew it because he was itching for a smoke or something more. The events of the past day had all happened because of his own curiosity, he tired to catalog each thing, each revelation and detail. It whirled around his head, not settling long enough for him to make sense of it and that kiss why had it burned, still tingled now? He needed time to think, to analyse.

There was a voice in the back of his head, a voice he had heard in the cellar, a voice he heard with Molly on that set up Ripper case. The voice of course was John’s. It tried to tell him he should stay, he should talk. It told him John wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t turn away. Sherlock pushed that voice back, even knowing he should listen to it, he shut it out, making room to think.

He stood and turned towards his room, he stopped, looking at the floor, his back to John.

"Can we talk about this another time… please."

His voice almost didn’t shake. John would understand, he had to, Sherlock couldn’t bare to hurt him again but he could not do this now.

"Goodnight John… thank you."

Sherlock strode away and closed his bedroom door behind him. He blew out a breath and stared around as if he didn’t recognize where he was. 

Eventually he kicked off his shoes and laid down on the bed, ankles crossed and fingers beneath his chin. Slowly the pieces began to coalesce, he ran through it all again and again and one thing became crystal clear. He was completely and hopelessly in love with John Watson.

"Oh!"

The only problem with this conclusion was that he had no real idea what it meant to be in love or what he was supposed to do with it. Emotions were always so messy, for the best part of his life he had tramped them down. Sherlock closed his eyes and sucked in a breath, letting it go in a rush.  
_____

For a while, John just sat on the couch, too dumbfounded to move.

He tried to understand Sherlock’s reaction, he really did. But to be quite frank, he had expected him to stay, despite not wanting to talk. Well, that was what John would have done. All the past few years should have taught him that Sherlock usually reacted differently from everyone else.

What have I done wrong? he asked himself, Why did he run away? Why didn’t he trust me enough to stay? I wouldn’t have forced him to talk.

John didn’t understand, like so often. He scoffed. Maybe he was an ordinary little idiot who’d never live up to Sherlock Holmes’s expectations. Maybe he didn’t deserve Sherlock’s trust. Who knew. Only Sherlock himself did, but he had ventured to his room, so there John was.

He wanted to know what action of his had been too much, what had made Sherlock leave. Was it the kiss, was it the decovery of the scars, was it the memories that were triggered by John’s questions? Or worse, had it started when he asked Sherlock to see his bullet wound?

John sighed. He had just wanted to help Sherlock, be there for him, and he had failed. Big time.

If only he knew if Sherlock still trusted him.

Yes, he had said they should talk about it later, but had he meant it? Did he feel betrayed, did he feel insecure, did he feel unsafe? Why had he left without an explanation? Why?

John’s heart was screaming, but not with affection this time. He was sad and disappointed, and so bloody angry at himself. He rubbed a hand over his face, mentally yelling at himself for being such an idiot.

John absentmindedly ran his fingers over his scar. The place Sherlock had kissed was still tingling, and then the memory was back and John felt warm all over again. Closing his eyes, he realised that Sherlock had left, wanted to be alone - and suddenly everything felt cold, so cold. He grabbed his jumper, pulling it over his head.

After sitting there a little longer, eyes unfocused on the floor, he looked up at Sherlock’s bedroom door. It was quiet behind it. No noise, no mumbling, no yelling, nothing. Quiet. Sherlock rarely was quiet. It frightened John a bit, if he was honest.

He didn’t know what Sherlock was doing behind closed doors. All he did know, however, was that he wanted to apologise. Needed to, in fact. Even though Sherlock had chosen to seek closure, it didn’t give John the right to pull him that close, overwhelm him by kissing him on the brow. Considering that Sherlock didn’t particularly like being touched and had very sensitive skin, what John did was the worst thing he could have done.

So he got up, making his way to Sherlock’s bedroom.

He hesitated before knocking, but eventually he did - gently and soft, not knowing if Sherlock had head it at all. ‘Are you still up?’ John asked quietly.  
_____

The knock came as a surprise, Sherlock had assumed John would have gone to bed. The fact that he hadn’t or returned to the living room was definitely a bit not good. It meant one of two things, either John was angry with him, inconvenient as it was interrupting his thinking time, or John was feeling guilty. First of all Sherlock abhorred that particular emotion, it was pointless and soul destroying, he knew that all too well and secondly if John was feeling guilty it was either because of Mary shooting him, boring, or because of the torture.

This last thing was exactly what Sherlock was hoping to avoid. As far as he was concerned what he did to keep John safe, to keep all of the people he cared about safe, was more than worth the wounds, both physical and mental. It had been his choice, it was the only way to be sure and only he could have done it. With a little help from Mycroft he admitted silently.

Sherlock took a deep breath and sat up.

"It’s ok John, you can come in."

Sherlock studied John closely as he stepped into the room, he took in every detail and John wasn’t angry. Sherlock’s chest tightened. John thinks he has failed me, he couldn’t be more wrong. Idiot.

"Before you say anything, I want you to know that I would do it all again, all of it. If necessary but I would do everything in my power to stop it being necessary again. Aside from the doctors and nurses you are the only one to have seen…" He gestured behind himself. "..that. I don’t want pity. No that’s not the right word, I don’t want guilt or sympathy, I just want…"

Why couldn’t he say it, ‘I want you John Watson’, it was simple enough.  
_____


	6. Chapter 6

_____  
'I am not here to give you sympathy.' John locked eyes with Sherlock, determined to make this right.

'I know you don't want pity, and even though I might feel it, I am not here to express it.' He wanted to make clear that he wasn't planning on pushing Sherlock any further, that he was done with the topic until his friend was ready to talk about it.

And even though he wanted to know why Sherlock would do all of it again, and why it had happened in the first place, he kept his mouth shut. If he started talking about this again, he would have achieved nothing. Sherlock would probably retreat even more. He didn’t want that. He wanted to keep the fragile… thing… that was between them now, he desperately wanted it to evolve. Whatever it was.

And he loved that man. He needed to regain his trust. He couldn’t bear hurting him.

John took a deep breath, carefully keeping his distance. ‘I came here to apologise. For taking advantage. Back in the living room. You were drunk, you were probably re-living the past two years, and therefore you clearly weren’t in a completely attentive state of mind. I shouldn’t have done what I have done, and I can only hope you can forgive me. And trust me again.’

He shuffled his feet, licked his lips, his hand clenching nervously. He couldn’t keep up the eye contact any longer, gazing sideways, voice going quiet. ‘I just wanted to be there for you,’ he whispered. ‘Show you how much you mean to me.’ He bit his lower lip, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘I … I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’ll just leave you alone.’

He needed a reaction. Something to show him if he had managed to bring his words across, if Sherlock understood, and if Sherlock forgave, but he didn’t dare ask for it. So John took a few steps back, reaching for the door handle, but not without looking back at Sherlock one more time.  
_____

Sherlock stood, taking half a step forward.

"Wait …please."

He stopped for a moment waiting to see if John would listen, as John turned around to face him again, Sherlock took a deep breath.

"I trust you John, more than anyone and you have done nothing wrong or unwanted. My faculties were not compromised by alcohol, only by my own, under used emotions." He stopped again realising he had probably just given himself away. Maybe John wouldn’t think to much about that particular sentence. He silently cursed himself and turned away factionally.

Sherlock wanted to reach out, to hold and be held but there was more than one reason why he didn’t. Aside from battling the forces he had erected around his heart, he was also sure that eventually, no matter how much he loved John, Sherlock would hurt him. He would get bored, he would get distracted, he would put John in dangerous situations, blah blah blah he would screw it up. He was barely holding on to himself now, he would either snap or shut himself away for days. 'Please John just give me tonight, maybe a couple days.' He thought.

"I will tell you John, I promise you that but I can’t do it now, so much has happened, just give me some time."

John nodded, Sherlock couldn’t be sure if his words had made any difference. He hoped so and the hard lines around John eyes did soften a little.

"I think we both could do with some sleep."

As John closed the door Sherlock said quietly “Good night John.”  
_____

John didn’t exactly have a good night. Too much was going on his head, and when he finally managed to close his eyes, he fell into a short, dreamless, restless sleep. He lay awake for most of the night, watching the hours tick by on his alarm clock.

He threw the covers off his body, only to pull them up moments later; he thrashed around in bed, trying to find a comfortable position to rest, but he wouldn’t succeed.

John kept thinking about Sherlock, about the way he had looked at him just before ushering him out the door. He understood that he needed some time, of course he did, but there had been something about Sherlock’s behaviour that had caught him off guard. He couldn’t place his finger on it, but something had - well, changed.

It had been good to hear he was still trusted, but if that was entirely true, John couldn’t say. Sherlock was a master of disguise and lying, why wouldn’t he lie to John? Especially in a situation like this, what with the sudden closeness and emotions boiling high. Sherlock must have felt like he’d been pushed into a corner, maybe his only way out was to lie.

John had never felt so uncertain in his life. If only he knew if Sherlock was aware of how he felt for him…

And there was one sentence that he heard over and over again in his mind. ”My faculties were not compromised by alcohol, only by my own, under used emotions.”  
If only he knew what Sherlock had meant by that..

Eventually, John gave up and went downstairs. It was 6 AM, the sun was dawning already, and he could distinguish bird song in all the noise of London traffic. He made himself a cuppa, then sat down in his chair, sipping at his tea. His eyes would fall close, and John soon enough found himself dozing off.

He fell into a daydream, revolving around Sherlock and the night before. His brain supplied a big amount of imagination, and suddenly, John was holding Sherlock close again, and Sherlock was trying to crawl on top of him, and they kissed, and held each other, and it was the most glorious dream John had ever had. The tenderness and gentle touches, the desperate and loving kisses, and the sheer love that he felt in his imagination was enough to make him whimper silently. He needed Sherlock, he realised, he didn’t want to lose him. God. He had fallen for Sherlock, hard. And he found that he didn’t mind.

Quite the contrary, actually.

A noise from Sherlock’s bedroom startled John and pulled him out of his daydream. Sherlock was getting up. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs, ran a hand over his face, and then hurried into the kitchen to make breakfast. He had to look busy and happy and normal, and hoped Sherlock wouldn’t deduce any of his night.

John was just setting the table when Sherlock stepped out of the room, yawning and rubbing his eyes absentmindedly. It did look adorable, John thought to himself, and he couldn’t help but smile.

Right then, Watson. Time to be your normal self.

'Morning,' John said cheerfully, desperate to not let this get awkward. 'I was making myself some eggs, want some, too?' In passing, he gently brushed Sherlock's upper arm. He just couldn't stop himself from doing so. He yearned to touch, to hold. His daydream was still in the back of his mind.  
_____

"Um morning." Sherlock eyed John suspiciously, so he was going for the ‘pretend nothing has happened’ angle. As if that ever worked. He inwardly sighed and decided to go along with it for now.

"I never could understand the need or the appeal of consuming large quantities of food, first thing in the morning. I need at least a coupe of hours before I can even consider eating." He was waffling and then John touched him.

If Sherlock had been the type to indulge in romance novels and other such drivel, he might have described the moment as slowing down, time standing still. But it wasn’t like that at all. Almost at the same time, just a fraction of a second later, Sherlock had mirrored John’s movement. The arm John was touching rose and Sherlock’s hand had made contact, an affectionate stroke almost, his knuckles brushed up the inside of John’s arm and his fingers slid along John’s side. 

It had happened so quickly. Sherlock hadn’t even been aware what he had done until they had already moved past each other. He sat at the table, John was making tea, the look on his face told Sherlock that John was as confused as he was.

"Just tea for me thanks."

He watched John for a few minutes, his usual tea making routine oddly comforting. There was something there though and Sherlock was pretty sure he knew what it was. John did not trust him. John thinks Sherlock lied. The trouble with this was Sherlock did lie, all the time. He lied about not having any cigarettes, he lied about where the bag of thumbs came from, he lied about agreeing to clean the kitchen. But Sherlock would never lie to John about important things and John’s happiness and well being was paramount.

This, Sherlock concluded was why John didn’t think Sherlock trusted him, it was in fact because John did not trust Sherlock. 

He wasn’t surprised by this, frankly who could blame John. The question was how was he going to win back his trust?  
_____

John felt Sherlock’s gaze in his back while making tea, and it didn’t exactly help him to remain calm. The gentle unexpected touch made John’s arm tingle and his heart flutter, and now that he was aware of his … affection for the detective, every glance and every touch made him nervous.

The situation between them was awkward, obviously, and yet theyhad touched each other like it was the most natural thing to do. And maybe, in a way it was. At least for John. Whenever he had a relationship, he loved to touch his partner - no matter in what way. Romantically, sexually, friendly - he just adored to feel the other’s skin beneath his fingertips, knowing that there was another human being next to him, someone who’d give him the honour to allow him to touch and to love and to hold.

And at the moment, John wanted nothing more than to do exactly that with Sherlock. He yearned to hold him, caress him, kiss him, but he knew that it was close to impossible. Even though Sherlock had mentioned emotions the night before, John wasn’t sure how to understand this. Did that mean that Sherlock liked him, as the best of friends, or was there more? John was anxious to know, but he didn’t dare ask.

John balanced the two tea cups to the table, placing Sherlock’s in front of him, leaning over his shoulders. When he did so, Sherlock happened to turn his head sideways to look at him, and for a moment, their faces were close, so close, that if John had only tilted his head a tiny little bit and leant forward, their lips would have touched.

But he didn’t.

So they just sat there, staring at each other, the tea cup hovering over the table. John was breathing through his mouth, chest heaving, heart racing, his eyes locked with Sherlock’s. There was something between them, the same thing like yesterday, only stronger and more fierce.

That lasted only a few seconds, but they were incredibly intense.

John swallowed, then forced himself to come back to reality, shaking away every fantasy that had just popped into his head. He cleared his throat, put down the tea cup and tried to sound normal when he asked ‘Well then, had a good night’s sleep?’  
_____

Well this was going to be more work than Sherlock had anticipated. John was doing an appalling job of pretending nothing had happened, if that was indeed what he was attempting and Sherlock was rapidly coming to the conclusion that it would be easier to confess his feelings and explain that he would do everything in his power to make them go away. If that’s what John wanted.

Maybe John wouldn’t want that, maybe John would welcome it. He couldn’t think like that, he would just be setting himself up for a fall, or pushing John off a ledge. Either was unthinkable. No, John would accept that and they would carry on as flatmates or he would move out, both of these options would be better than the likely outcome of things becoming ‘complicated’, no matter how much he might want that.

And then John looked at him that way. John was passing the tea, they were very close and Sherlock turned his head. It was all there, in plain sight and Sherlock’s breath left his body. He struggled for a moment to get his brain back online and John was speaking.

"Absolutely not. Horrible night."

He sipped at the steaming brew, a half smile that John always remember the sugar.

"You see.." Sherlock began, plunging in head first. "I seem to have developed feelings for you, actually if I’m honest they have been there since day one but I have only very recently realised that’s what it was."

Sherlock carried on like a runaway train.

"I realise this is all very inconvenient and that you wouldn’t be interested anyway, even though you are showing signs of interest, I am assuming you are just confused and lacking dates and, as for myself, I am the absolute worst choice in significant other material, which is why I have decided that I will do my best to delete these ‘feelings’. Hopefully that will be achieved before too long and we can get back to sharing a flat and solving crimes." 

Sherlock smiled and waited for John’s response.  
_____

NO! Don’t.’

The words were out of John’s mouth before he had time to think and consider and make a rational decision, saving both of them from more awkwardness. He had followed his heart, and his heart was screaming loud enough to make him protest. This right here, this was something that might change their lives forever, for the better, and in the course of his life John Watson had too many doors closing right in his face to shut the one being opened right now by himself.

He stared at Sherlock, eyes wide open.

'Don't,' he repeated, 'don't delete the feelings. Please.' He fidgeted on his chair nervously, playing with the handle of his tea cup.

Finally, Sherlock’s words were sinking in. He was in love. With John. While the first thing already came as a huge surprise, the latter was the most unexpected thing in the whole of John’s life. He had never deemed himself worthy of Sherlock’s attention in any way - except maybe for supplying some medical facts and sharing the rent (or rather, him paying everything and Sherlock just shooting the walls). But not… in this kind of way. But it made him happy to hear those words, incredibly so, and he just didn’t want to give up.

There was of course the chance that Sherlock was making all of that up, just to get this situation over and done with. But John was someone who believed in the good in man, and there was that spark of hope that Sherlock meant those words. And, by God, if he did, then John would count himself to be the luckiest man on earth.

John stared at Sherlock, trying to read his thoughts, but that man’s face was like a mask once again, and he was feeling helpless.

'Look. I … I find it difficult. This sort of thing.' He waved his hands between them, staring at his tea. 'And I know you do, too.' He looked back up at Sherlock. 'But I can assure you that… you are wrong. In one aspect.' His voice became quiet as he continued. 'I am not confused, and I know that for a fact. I think that you are amazing, and you know that. And there's no-one else on earth that I…' He trailed off, not knowing how to phrase what he wanted to express.

'Jesus.' Why did this have to be so complicated? Sherlock had managed to admit to his feelings without batting an eyelash, and here John was, stammering and blushing.

'Look,' he said, trying to keep his voice steady. 'If… there really is… something between us - and I very much think there is - I doubt we should just let this opportunity pass. Because I can’t find any reason that we should ignore… whatever it is we have.’

Clearing his throat, John placed his hand palm upwards on the table, sliding it to Sherlock. He hoped he’d take it. He had never hoped for anything more in his life. Shockingly, not even when he had been shot.

'Please. Just let us try. Because I am very much in love with you myself.’  
_____

Sherlock’s jaw dropped as John spoke, he must have looked like a complete idiot sat there with his chin on the floor. He shut it quickly, frowning at John’s hand. His eyes flicked up and there was something in John’s that spoke of companionship, chases, late night take aways, crime scenes and something else. Hope.

This meant that John was still unsure, that he still doubted most of what Sherlock said to him. There was only one way Sherlock could make him believe otherwise and that was to show him.

He wasn’t good at this, Sherlock had shunned close physical contact for most of his life, he had knowledge but no experience. And why was he thinking about that side of things? It was only a hand being offered. He looked back to John’s hand and tentatively, slipped his own into John’s open palm. Trying hard not to think about John’s skin in other places.

John’s hand was warm and smooth, just an edge of roughness from his army days. Sherlock sat there and stared at their hands, a feeling of unreality sinking into his bones. 

What happens now? Sherlock had no real idea, were they going to date, sleep in the same room, bed, what exactly did this mean?

He sat there, absentmindedly circling his fingers on John’s palm. Of course Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted to do, at least he was pretty sure what he wanted to do, even if he didn’t know the ‘mechanics’ of it all. Was he supposed to go with gut feeling or wait and see what John would do. His uncertainty was making him anxious and twitchy.

Without warning or even thinking about it, Sherlock leaned forward, rising a little over the table. He slipped a hand to John’s cheek, rubbing his thumb over John’s cheekbone. He leaned in further, slowly, his intentions clear and when his lips made contact with John’s, they were dry and smooth but open and pliant. John’s lips moved beneath his own and sent a thrill sparking down his spine. It was slow and sweet but too dry, Sherlock’s tongue wet his bottom lip, sliding along John’s lip at the same time. It was like a shock wave moving through his body and he gasped, sitting back.

"John …I …I’m …what happens now?" 

_____

John carefully rounded the table to get in front of Sherlock. They had only kissed once, and he was already addicted to that man.

'I suggest we continue were you just left off,' John whispered, voice almost a growl. He leaned forward, cupping Sherlock's cheeks, tracing his cheekbones with his thumbs, and gently touched his lips to Sherlock's. His eyes fluttered close at the contact, lips and fingers tingling.

He made sure that he didn’t overwhelm Sherlock with this kiss, kept it soft and gentle and sweet, a tender movement of lips against lips. The sides of their noses brushed as John tilted his head a bit further, allowing Sherlock more access, nipping softly at luscious the curve of his upper lip; something he had always dreamt about.

The smooth inner surface of Sherlock’s lips brushed John’s, and he answered in the same way. Pressure, less pressure, testing and exploring, another tilting of John’s head, and their lips clasped the other’s so that John had he opportunity to bite Sherlock’s lower lip softly, making him whimper silently.

John let one of his hands travel to the back of Sherlock’s neck, gently running his fingers through the soft hair there, and he pressed his body closer to him. John was determined to let Sherlock control the kiss, let him stop when he needed to, let him continue if he wanted more.

They spent a few minutes just exploring each other that way, kissing and nipping and playing, and John enjoyed every single second of it. He had kissed many people, but none quite like Sherlock. The gentleness and the trust and the emotions in this one kiss were so much, so wonderful, that it make his heart ache. He wanted to hold Sherlock forever, there was nothing he wanted more. Christ, he really was in love.

When they broke apart to gasp for air, John pressed their foreheads together. Sherlock was blushing lightly, his mouth was opened a bit and John wanted nothing more than to dive back in and kiss those lips again, but he knew that they needed to talk about this first.

Without breaking their contact, hands still on Sherlock’s body, John spoke, a bit breathless. ‘If this is what you truly want… then there is no need for a plan. We don’t have to decide what happens next. Whatever is supposed to happen is going to happen. We can do anything we like, and don’t do things we don’t want to do.’ John ghosted a kiss to Sherlock’s nose. ‘There’s no need to get nervous, about anything, because I’m here for you, and you’re here for me, and as long as you really want this… it will all come naturally. And believe me, there’s nothing in the world that I want more than to be with you.’

He looked into Sherlock’s eyes. ‘So, it’s up to you now. I’ll accept and understand every decision you make. Do you want this, Sherlock? Do you want… us?’  
_____

"Yes."

Sherlock nodded. He wasn’t sure he could manage more than single word sentences right now, he could still feel John on his lips, in his skin. He had an overwhelming need to be closer, it prickled at the back of his neck, like raw wool on sensitive flesh, it pushed him to do what his body was telling him to do. For once he let it override his brain.

Sherlock surged forward, his hands flying up to John’s face, one cupping his jaw, the other at the back of his head. His lips sealed over John’s and he kissed him with all the pent up passion of the last three years.

The floodgates had been opened and Sherlock was swept away by it. The feel of John’s lips under his own made his head spin and he wanted more of that heat, more of that slick skin, he needed to be closer. His tongue was inside John’s mouth, tasting him and he moaned, pushing ever forward, when John’s tongue slid hotly over his own.

The want washed over him, Sherlock couldn’t think, could barely breathe and his heart was hammering against his ribs. He had been steadily pushing forward, relentless in his need to be ever closer and John had suddenly stopped, as his back hit the kitchen wall.

The jolt caused them bounce against each other and this was when the realisation that they were both shocking hard, struck Sherlock. He stopped, reason returning for a moment, to pull in a lungful of air and possibly prepare to be punched. Then reason slapped him the face. John was hard.  
_____


End file.
